


Words

by aguantare



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Unrequited, slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 04:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7028719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabi has never had the words for Fernando.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written Fernando Torres since he left Liverpool. Wasn't personally invested in the CL Final, but sympathized more with Atleti. Watched a few interviews with Gabi, and then wrote this. Un-beta'd, any errors are mine. Feedback is <3\. 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me.

Gabi is a little bit surprised when someone slides wordlessly into the seat next to him on the bus after the final. He’s less surprised when he looks over and sees that it’s Fernando. There’s no more tears, no outward expression of the bone-deep, aching disappointment, but Gabi can still see it, in the quick, sharp bob of his throat, the cord of tension in his jawline. 

“Did you talk to Antoine?” Gabi asks after a few moments. 

“I did,” Fernando responds with a nod, “Did you?”

“Yes,” Gabi says, “But I think it will mean more to him coming from you.”

Fernando tucks the corner of his lower lip between his teeth, looking past Gabi, out the window.

“And Juanfran?” he asks. 

“I talked to him too,” Gabi replies, “He’ll be okay.”

Fernando nods. Turns his gaze forward and down toward his hands. Gabi does the same, but watches Fernando out of the corner of his eye. He thinks he should have the words to give Fernando the solace he so clearly needs, one captain to another, one _madrileño_ , one _rojiblanco_ to another. 

But Gabi has never had the words for Fernando, not when he was 20 years old and bent double with the weight of the armband and the expectations of a city, not when he left Spain (and Gabi) behind for the open arms of Liverpool, not when he was crashing and burning at Chelsea. Not even when he came back to Atleti—older, broader, wiser. Sadder.

And certainly not now, when perhaps his last chance at redemption has slipped away. 

The bus ride back to the hotel is silent. When they arrive at the hotel, there’s a short pause before people start shuffling to their feet, gathering up their things and heading for the front. Fernando sits there for an extra second or two before standing up. Gabi reaches out, rests a hand at the back of his neck, and Fernando pauses, turns his head a little, but doesn’t say anything.

They go inside, and while they’re waiting for the elevators, Fernando is fiddling with his phone. As they step onto the elevator, Gabi gets a glimpse of the screen. He isn’t able to read the message, but he recognizes the name at the top.

When the elevator reaches their floor, they filter off quietly, a few mumbled ‘’night, boys’ passing between people as they migrate off to their respective rooms. Fernando is still holding his phone, scrolling up and down with one thumb. Gabi recognizes that type of indecisiveness. He ignores the now-familiar tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with the match. Lightly grips Fernando’s upper arm to get his attention.

“Call your captain,” Gabi says. 

“What are you talking about,” Fernando responds, sounding anything but convincing, “You’re my captain.” 

Gabi half-smiles at that, because, 

“You were my captain first,” he replies, “And you know exactly what I’m talking about.” He drops his hand back to his side. 

“Call Gerrard,” he repeats, nodding towards Fernando’s phone, hesitates for a split second, then adds, “He’ll know what to say to you.”


End file.
